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Writing like No One's Reading

Write like no one’s
reading. The thought came to me on a train journey I hadn’t expected much
from. It was always about taking a nap and snoring the distance away for me,
avoiding eating anything from the mobile vendors selling dubious tea and untrustworthy
coffee. I’d forcefully close my eyes, plug in my earphones, till the point a
part of my brain would give up and turn itself off.

It’s different this time- I find myself on a comfortable
seat, near the window, with enough leg room to keep both my bags and still not
feel suffocated. I couldn’t sleep so I read; I couldn’t read any more so I
drifted away in my thoughts- a practice I had left years ago.

Like encountering an old friend on a strange road that
somehow feels familiar when you see the friend smile, my thoughts embrace me
back. I allow myself the freedom to let them fly away as far as they wish to. I
allow myself to steal my waking time to do nothing, instead of occupying myself
with thoughtless texting or data analysis work for my job or playing games on
the tiny cell-phone screen. ‘Il bel far niente,’ the famous Italian proverb I
used to love so much, made itself significant in my life again. The beauty of doing nothing.

And so, it questioned me with the same right an old friend
would have of asking if I’ve changed a bit or not, “Where were you all this
time?”

When was the last time I did absolutely nothing, enjoyed it
and allowed my thoughts to be? When was the last time I wrote so peacefully?

It was back in 2013 when one of my short-stories got
published nationally through a competition in a book that later turned out to
be a bestseller. I remember I have been writing ever since I was 10 years old.
It would always bring me peace. If it got published, it made my parents happy
and that’s it. There was no pride for me in seeing my work published in
magazines or newspaper. If there was some remuneration involved, it made me
happy for I could indulge in some fancy expensive food item in some restaurant
I hadn’t been to before.

But times had to change for me after 2013. My social media
usage was at its peak. I was overwhelmed by the messages of appreciation I got
frequently. My other short-stories got published in other books too. I started
calling myself a writer without knowing what the world truly meant. Of course,
I didn’t consider myself an author but a writer for sure. I received mails by
readers who would even ask for suggestions and advice. I would respond
gleefully.

Things changed for me. I was always a writer, right from
when I was just 10. But when I started calling myself one I failed to become
one. Expectations of colleagues and bosses and friends and family piled up on
my wrists- they asked when I’d publish my novel and my fingers ceased to type.

The next time I’d write even a sentence I’d think what’s in
it for the readers. And as I started thinking for the readers – strangers I
never met – I stopped thinking what made me happy. So the novel I was working
on sat on one corner, covered in dust, untouched, unheard of. It was difficult
to meet with all the expecting eyes – in their minds I still was a writer. In
reality, I wasn’t.

I stopped writing fiction because it was difficult to write
something when so many people were watching – in my head. Is this sentence
correct? Would this be something meaningful, something different?

I started writing non-fiction – putting my true feelings and
adventures on paper – I couldn’t do that wrong. I was vulnerable with my
emotions but that was alright because I owned them. There wasn’t any the-ending-could-have-been-different
messages. The beauty of true stories.

Of course, people hardly have the time to read these days.
Those who would ping me about my next blog post wouldn’t give a second thought
on just dropping a Facebook like on my blogpost and then moving on without
reading it. That made me more confident in being so vulnerable about revealing
trivial details of my life on my blog. If no one’s reading, what’s the harm? I
was amused by people who would start a new blog and ask for advice. I’d ask
them – who are you writing it for? I was amused by people who would get their
articles printed in some magazine or some book. I’d feel like telling them not
to fall in this trap. For I once made the same mistake - an editor would call
and demand a story to be written on one theme, I’d feel stressed about not
being up to their expectations.

There’s no perfect story. There’s no perfect book. There’s
no perfect author. But there’s a perfect writer- the one who would write just
for the fun of it. The one who wouldn’t care what one’s readers would want to
read. The one who wouldn’t even care if one’s work is not published. The one
who would write because one enjoyed doing so. The one who wouldn’t change a
word, who wouldn’t change the ending and who wouldn’t read the reviews. The one
who wouldn’t convert this art to some exercise that one could do till
perfection. The one who wouldn’t edit and re-edit like a taior trying to make
the exact match of another outfit. The one who would write because the story
has come to oneself and not writing wouldn’t let one be in peace. The one who
wouldn’t think of publishers, rejection, critiques and feedback. The one who
isn’t writing marketing plans for one’s book to drive sales. The one who’s
writing because one wants to. Not an author for the world, but a writer for
one’s heart. The one who writes like no one’s reading.

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